


Wrecked

by hannah_jpg



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, shipwrecked au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: A reluctant sailing trip, a timely seastorm and a deserted beach. Enter the fruit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an oldie and goodie from my tumblr archives. One of my favorites, easily. Hope you enjoy <3

 

"Come sailing with us."

Lothíriel did not even bother looking up from her novel to answer her brother, giving an emphatic, "No."

But Amrothos persisted. "It's a beautiful day, Riel. And you have been stuck in this stuffy palace for weeks; I know you will enjoy the fresh air…it may be our last chance before the autumn rains..."

It took all of her self-control to keep from either groaning aloud in frustration, or from smacking Amrothos round the head with her book. While it was true that she had not left the palace in quite some time, (an enormous amount of foreign guests busied her more than what was reasonable), her fiction novel had lain untouched for days, begging to be finished. That she at last had the opportunity to sit down in her private chamber and devote her attention to the book was no small matter, and sailing with her brothers, though one of her favorite pastimes, was unlikely to dissuade her from reading.

Amrothos tipped down her book with a long finger, causing Lothíriel to scowl at him. "You can read any old day," he said, ignoring the look. "Any  _rainy_ day. But you cannot beat today for sailing…"

In the silence as he awaited a response, Lothíriel heard the chatter of court ladies outside the door, making her stomach turn with perturbation. This made up her mind quickly, and surprising both herself and her brother, said, "Very well! I will be down shortly." Amrothos, unreasonably gleeful, left her at once, and she heard with disgust the rise in the volume of the giggles from the ladies as he passed them on his way out. Of course, there had been no guarantee the ladies would have beseeched her company for the afternoon...but she dreaded the mere possibility so much that agreeing to sail over her book was too easy of a decision. How she hated the gossip and talk of clothes and who wanted to wed whom!

All in all, it was an dispirited Lothíriel that wandered out of the palace and to the prince's private docks some time later. She had changed her day dress for something more appropriate for sailing: loose trousers, a long tunic and waterproof boots with her hair braided back where it would not be ruffled about by the wind. Playing hostess for so many guests was wearing down her normally cheerful nature, Lothíriel decided as she mounted one of the smaller docks where she could see her brother preparing a small vessel. The sooner the noble guests—and their insipid daughters—left Dol Amroth, the better off she would be.

Her moody thoughts were not at all helped at the sight of a tall man, who was helping Elphir to coil a length of rope. Though Lothíriel had met the King of Rohan previously and had no real quarrel with him, he was too stern of demeanor to endear himself to her. That, and that day several months earlier when she had overheard her father discussing with one of his counsellors the possibility that she make a match with the King...thankfully her firm (albeit half-hysterical) confrontation of her father later that day had removed the idea from him, but seeing the King still made her shiver with discomfort.

Amrothos helped her into the swaying boat, and Lothíriel took advantage of their closeness to hiss in his ear, "'We', indeed!"

He only shrugged, and Lothíriel knew he did not care one bit if he had incidentally deceived her into thinking it would only be herself and her brothers. Already Amrothos was unlatching the rudder from its locked position, and he bowed her to the cushioned seat. "Your command," he said, and then more loudly, "Shove off!"

There was a shout of protest from Erchirion, who was still on the dock and carrying a load of tools and rope. Amrothos laughed long at the joke, and even Lothíriel smiled, though she waited patiently for Erchirion to hop into the boat with a clatter before she steered the rudder away from the dock. Elphir and the King were using long oars to push away from the docks, and Amrothos unfurled the mainsail, whistling out-of-tune and making her ears ring.

The breeze was brisk, and began to urge them along before they had even left the shelter of the inlet where the dock was built. Soon they were past a rocky outcrop with only the sparkling blue sea before them, and sighing, Amrothos flopped onto a pile of canvas and lay with his arm covering his face from the merciless sun.

"Not time to rest yet, you lazy slob!" Erchirion called down, from the top of the mast where he was double-securing knots of the spreaders.

"My work is done," Amrothos said. " _You_  are the slow one, Erch."

"I see you have yet to tighten the headstay! Did you not think I would notice? I am not an idiot."

"Evidence would suggest otherwise…"

Lothíriel ignored their bickering; it was too ordinary and too dull to entertain her. Instead she tried very hard to ignore Elphir teaching the King of Rohan how to test if the boom stay was secured, which she was finding far more interesting. So Lothíriel glanced up at the sun, the horizon, the distant outlines of several small islands, and quickly decided that they would sail south. There were pale clouds congregating in the northern sky, and though Lothíriel would wager they had no rain in the them, she still did not fancy any risk of inclement weather. She steered the rudder to her right, and the boat swayed as it turned abruptly.

"Oi!" Erchirion shouted, clenching white-knuckled onto the spreaders. "Tell us before you turn the ruddy boat, Riel!"

Little as she liked to be shouted at, Lothíriel did notice with satisfaction that her brothers' argument was quite overshadowed by the bumping turn of the boat, and she smiled to herself benignly. Unfortunately, the next words of Elphir filtered to her ears, though they were meant for the King.

"Lothíriel is our best navigator," he was saying. "She can always tell where she is just by looking at the sky. Father says she could command a ship, if she was not so little of stature and a princess of the realm. Though her steering can be a bit...er—wild, she never gets lost."

Lothíriel stuck her tongue out in Elphir's direction, but his back was turned. The King, however, who had been in the process of sending her a furtive glance, saw her action and gave—to her astonishment—a quick grin. She felt heat rush to her face.

Thankfully, there were plenty of other distractions involved in the sailing of a boat by such misfit adventurers, and to keep from getting embarrassed at the King's frequent scrutiny (did he not trust her to steer the vessel?), Lothíriel joined in against Amrothos, who still stubbornly refused to do anything other than pretend to sleep. There was plenty of rope within reach of any point on the boat, and she rested her elbow on the rudder as she picked apart the frayed end of one such rope. As Amrothos was resting not too far from her, it was a simple matter to lean over as far as she could, holding the rope towards his pretending-to-be serene face, where she brushed the rope against his nose, making him swat at the air in disgust. Overcome with giggles, Lothíriel continued until Amrothos growled aloud, trying to snatch the rope blindly but she was too quick.

"Cease and desist!" Amrothos roared, sitting up straight with his eyes flashing fire at Lothíriel as she succeeded, once again, to yank the rope out of his grip. Erchirion was howling with laughter as he finished with the ropes on the mast, and jumped down to the steer of the boat with a loud  _thunk._

"Good, you are awake," Lothíriel said placidly, winding up the rope neatly once more. "Do ensure that our boat is safe, if you please. The rest of us have enough to do without having to do your chores, too."

She had likely lost Amrothos's goodwill for the remainder of the journey, but it was worth it. Especially when she caught the King of Rohan's eyes and he winked at her. It confused Lothíriel greatly; she knew he was very friendly with the members of her family, but she was unsure how she ought to treat the King. If he was her father's sworn-son, would that make him her brother? Then why would her father want them to marry? Did the King know of those failed plans? How should she go about treating him, then, as a sort-of brother and sort-of rejected suitor?

And why did he seem to look at her so often?

Lothíriel found herself so distracted by her musings that she was the last to notice the eerie calm that had overtaken the boat; her brothers had stopped alternating between bickering and joking, and the sky was an ugly, puce shade of yellow. She stared upwards for a moment; were those the harmless clouds she had seen in the north before their departure? How had they encroached so quickly?

"Turn back, Lothíriel," Elphir ordered, his voice too loud to be normal though he appeared perfectly calm. "I do not dare continue onward, even if there are islands closer than the city. Let us not be shipwrecked today, eh?"

Lothíriel had already turned the rudder, but without the sun or stars to guide her, the present knowledge of their location would only last so long. She swiveled in her seat to look for land masses; several islands lay before the dip of the horizon, but they were not near enough for her to recognize them and gauge their exact location. As the sky had been clear at their departure, Lothíriel had not considered bringing her father's old compass; now she chided herself ruthlessly for the idiocy.

A gentle patter of rain began to sound on the flat of the ocean and the wooden planks of the boat. Hastily, Elphir and Erchirion were rolling up the mast so that any stormy winds would not blow them off course, and Amrothos was unwrapping several oilskins. They were all just barely wrapped tightly as the sea began to rock them brutally, and a vicious sheet of rain blew horizontally as the wind picked up, and Lothíriel blinked water out of her eyes.

"Which way is Dol Amroth?" Erchirion called over the loudness of the rain, kicking loose tools and such into the storage at the rear of the boat.

"North-northeast," Lothíriel shouted back. "Into the storm, I think."

"You  _think_?" Amrothos was a picture of unhappiness, his wet hair plastered across his face as he pulled on the backstay, the boat groaning underfoot.

"Should we not take shelter belowdecks?" This was the first suggestion from the King, who was looking a bit green in the face as he placed an unsteady hand on the mast with another rolling wave.

Elphir gave a bark of laughter. "Belowdecks? There are none here—this is barely a sloop, my friend! And this is hardly enough of a storm to warrant any worry; we have sailed in worse!"

Lothíriel would have scoffed, were she not so busy fighting the rudder. It was pointless of her to try to direct the boat with such pressure from the violent swells, but she felt she was to blame for their predicament; she should have been watching the weather…

Everything was darkening around them; black sky, black water. Lothíriel squinted to watch her brothers rush around the boat, two unrecognizable forms bailing water and another stumbling around accomplishing nothing. A rush of apprehension took her for a half-second as she realized she could not see the King, and then she saw his unmistakable golden head (where was his oilskin cap, anyway? He ought to be wearing it!), leaning over the side of the boat. Remembering his nauseated expression, she guessed that the storm had overwhelmed him. But he was too near the edge; Lothíriel decided that they all ought to probably secure themselves to the boat with lengths of rope.

But several things happened in quick succession that prevented her from carrying out that plan. Firstly, the taunt main sheet snapped. Then a particularly fierce gust of wind and tip of the boat sent the boom careening to the port side, where the unfortunate King was still hunched over. The solid  _thwump_  of contact on the poor man's back was audible even over the rush of rain, and Lothíriel swallowed a scream as he plummeted headfirst off the side.

Her brothers had not noticed; they were too busy fighting to keep the boat afloat. She abandoned the rudder at once, knowing that cause was futile anyway, and she struggled across the boat. With trembling hands hastily tied a rope 'round her waist and then around the mast. It seemed plenty long now, coiled on the deck, but would it be long enough? Lothíriel kicked off her boots, glanced quickly at the surrounding sea, and seeing the bobbing head of the King, climbed on the rim of the hull and dove into the black sea.

Everything went silent as water filled her ears, and she was buffeted backwards into the keel painfully. Pushing off with her feet, Lothíriel swarm forward, blinking in the salty water as she tried to see around her for the King. No luck. She swam towards the surface with difficulty, taking deep breaths in the moist air as she looked around frantically. A waving hand was just visible before disappearing below a tall swell, and with all her strength, Lothíriel swarm forward, tugging on the rope and praying it was long enough.

Another wave, this one more fortuitous, brought the King in her direction, and bumping limbs awkwardly they were wrenched together underneath the water. Lothíriel grasped his sinking wrist with both of her hands, and pulled him upwards as she kicked. Their heads broke the surface together, taking deep, panicking breaths.

"Hold on to me!" she shouted over the noise of the storm. "I am tied to the boat!"

The King nodded, and grasped her around the waist so tightly she struggled to breathe, and then with numbing arms she began to pull on the rigid rope that would lead them to safety. But the weight of the King, combined with, as Elphir put it—her littleness of stature—as well as her ebbing strength, the prospect did not look good.

"Trade places with me." The King's voice was loud in her ear, and she could only nod as he let go of her to clutch the rope instead. She could barely wrap her arms around his shoulders, they were so broad, and she felt his muscles move as he drew them closer to the boat. Now Lothíriel could see the outline of the vessel, and relief surged through her limp body. They began to move faster, and she saw one of her brothers pulling hard on the rope from within the boat.

But she had chosen too thin a rope for their salvation. Being rubbed so ruthlessly on the hard wood of the boat, it had begun to fray, and the horrifying sound of a  _snap_  preceded a great sweep of water, which tumbled both herself and the king, head over heels over head, back into the unforgiving sea and away from the boat.

Lothíriel's mouth was full of briny water; she could not scream. Fear made her body stiffen, and she clenched harder to the King, who was almost buffeted from her grip. She could hear him coughing, and hating the decision, she loosened her arms at once. Then they were torn apart, and would have been separated by an enormous swell had he not the wit to grab the torn rope with still held her. But without his added weight or a connection to the boat, Lothíriel was at the mercy of the sea, and it did not hesitate to drag her slight form underwater. It was a terrible feeling, she thought to herself; being pushed down by the sea but also pulled upwards by a rejected suitor… The fight between the two was not easily decided, and just underneath the surface, Lothíriel watched with interest as white spots appeared in front of her eyes. She felt like she was gliding, really...this was not so bad. Or could it be the storm fading? It hardly mattered now; it had done quite enough damage.

The only thing that broke through her stupor was the pain in her eyes from the saltwater, and Lothíriel closed her lids. It was too black to see anything, anyway…


	2. Chapter 2

There were voices far away; so many overlapping that Lothíriel could not discern any words. She ignored them as best she could. Somehow in her hazy mind, she knew that pain came with the voices, and she would really rather stay in the blessed darkness, thank you very much.

But they were insistent, and a sharp slap across her face made her wince with discomfort and annoyance. Someone was shaking her shoulders—Amrothos, most likely. Why would he not mind his own business for once? She was perfectly fine…

Her body rebelled. She had a split second warning before her belly heaved, and she automatically rolled to her side, spewing out salty water. This brought her much closer to reality; she hated to vomit, the salt was burning her skin, and she could feel gritty sand in her mouth as she tried to breath in.

A thump on her back nearly made her screech in pain. Then another, and another. "Stop it!" Lothíriel tried to shout, though only a hoarse moan came from her mouth. Her throat burned from the vomit and the salt. A large hand lifted her face from where it rested on the sand, and she blinked away sand from her eyes as she at last opened them.

The King of Rohan's earnest face was peering down at her, worry etched between his brows. His hair was wet and matted with salt, and oddly enough his blue eyes seemed to match the cloudless sky behind him. Lothíriel blinked painfully.

"Are you well?" he asked.

Trying to swallow but unable to, she whispered, "Er—no, not really."

"Ah—oh. What can I do, then?"

"Water." Unfortunately this only seemed to baffle the King further, for he only glanced around quickly before replying.

"I see none but the sea," he said. "I do not—"

Lothíriel struggled to sit forward, and were it not for the assistance of the King she might not have managed it. Taking measured breaths, she blinked in the painful sunlight around them.

They were on an island, that much must be true. It was not a large island, as she could see the ends of the sandbank disappear into the crystal-blue sea some fifty-feet away on either side of them. There was a dense clump of trees behind them, and if her knowledge of the geography of the Bay of Belfalas was accurate (which it was), there was unlikely to be anything else on the opposite side of the trees but more beach. Looking at the bright sky sent a sharp pain through her eyes and into her head, and Lothíriel rubbed her temples, grimacing. Their exact location would have to wait.

"There should be something in the region of the trees," she said quickly. "Trees or a stream—anything. Plants do not grow from seawater, after all."

"I will go and search—do not move." The King's order was unnecessary, Lothíriel thought. She could not move even had she been inclined to. Every muscle in her body ached, and she saw the surface of her arms and feet covered in shallow scratches. That would be why the entirety of her skin was stinging, then. Hopefully there would be enough fresh water for her to clean herself; that would help greatly.

She waited on the beach, her eyes closed and her concentration on anything other than the torment of her injuries, for much longer than she expected. The forest was not  _that_  large, after all, and the King was supposed to be a capable man. What could he be doing?

A series of  _thunks_  at her feet brought Lothíriel back to the present, and she opened her eyes in surprise to see a pile of fruits and nuts. Truthfully, it was more than she expected, and when she looked up at the King's smug face she knew she was expected to compliment his haul. But she had spent far too much time with Amrothos to do so willingly.

"No water?" she asked, brows lifting as he sat down beside her.

"Er—"

"It does not matter," Lothíriel muttered, and picked up a lopsided green ball. "There in water in the  _ferna_ ; have you a knife?"

"Always." The King flipped the knife he already held in his hand until the leather-bound hilt was held out towards her. Lothíriel glanced skeptically up at him, and then took the warm handle. She had experience enough with the  _ferna_  that breaking the shell was no issue. As soon as there was an opening big enough, she tilted it into her mouth and swallowed the warm milk of the fruit greedily.

"That is much better," she said, licking the last of the precious sustenance from her lips. "Hand me another one—that one there—and you may drink as well."

The King's reaction the drink was not so satisfactory as her own, and he drank with a grimace.

"'Tis an acquired taste," Lothíriel told him with a smile. "But it is better than starvation, to be sure."

"Indeed," the King muttered.

"The  _dayig_  is not, however." She picked up a dark, prickly fruit about the size of her fist. "Sweet as a rose but not worth the fever, I think."

"We have enough issues without fevers," he agreed. "So—how are we to get off this blasted island?"

Lothíriel had deliberately been avoiding thinking about just that problem, and she sighed, returning his knife. "We cannot build anything that will float in the open sea with so little resources," she said, glancing again at the forest behind them. "And I will have to explore a bit more before I can say for sure, but I do not think there are any inhabited islands nearby. Certainly there are none in this direction." She nodded towards the sea in front of them, which sparkled innocently in the orange of the setting sun; had it been so long already? Not a cloud was in sight, and the gentle, lapping waves on the beach were not at all reminiscent of the swells which had nearly drowned them.

"How long has it been?" Lothíriel asked abruptly.

"I would estimate four hours since I lost sight of the boat, still afloat and fighting the waves. The rain ceased not a half-hour after the rope broke. The waves were kind enough to deposit us here, since they deprived us of our transportation."

Four hours of unconsciousness! The throbbing headache that was beginning to bother her would only worsen. Lothíriel bit her lip, thinking harder. "Well!" she said at last. "Assuming my brothers made it to safety, they will warn my father that we are lost and ought to be able to give a partially accurate location. There will be plenty of ships searching for us soon enough."

"Truly?" The King's tone was uncertain, and Lothíriel gave him an affronted glance.

"Of course! It is only a matter of time before we are rescued. Until then, we have only to survive."

"And how long will we have to survive?"

Lothíriel paused. "I do not know."

The King laughed humorlessly, running his fingers through his matted hair. "What a day!" he said. "If I die, my sister will kill me."

"Then she would be saved the bother," Lothíriel said blandly. "We will not die, my lord."

"There are not many more of those farny-whatsits, and I really would rather not try those fever-thingys—"

Angrily, Lothíriel kicked an oblong green fruit. "This we can eat!" Then a large bunch of blue pods. "This we can eat!" At last a bunch of yellow berries. "This we can eat!"

The King held out a hand as if to calm her, saying hastily, "Alright, alright…"

She got to her feet, ignoring her trembling knees and wrenching off both the rope, which had  _not_  saved them, and the oilskin cloak, which had not kept her dry following her dive into the sea. Sand and salt had collected and matted on her trousers, and she cleaned them as best she could. That her feet were bare was mildly embarrassing, but as it was the warm season, she was unlikely to catch a chill. Lothíriel made a noise of disgust as she shook the sand from her arms, and then she stalked towards the trees, ignoring the throbbing and aching pains across her body.

"Wait—what are you doing?"

"Collecting leaves," she called back to the king, several paces away and standing in alarm as he watched her. "I would rather not sleep on the sand nor on these terrible roots—" Indeed, the roots of the trees were so rugged that she was in danger of tripping if she did not carefully watch where she was walking.

 _Dayig_  trees, which were practically useless for decent nourishment, were nonetheless the best choice when it came to leaves. Each one was easily as large as Lothíriel, bright-green and thick. She had to jump to reach the ones closest to the ground, and when she caught hold of the first leaf, it held her weight suspended above the ground. She was left feeling stupid as she tried to yank it downwards with her.

Laughter reached her ears, and her temper, already fragile, nearly shattered. Lothíriel was ready with a scowl when the King appeared next to her, their eyes nearly level as he observed her with amusement.

"I see what you are trying to do," he said in his deep voice. "May I assist?"

"If you will," Lothíriel snapped.

It seemed to take him no strength at all to snap the leaf from the trunk of the tree, and Lothíriel nearly fell over with the heavy leaf on top of her. She straightened. "I will take this to the beach," she said unnecessarily.

"If you will." The King grinned. "And I will gather more."

It was an irritable Lothíriel that sat stiffly on the  _dayig_  leaves that evening; the sun had set to their backs and the dusky sky turned an elegant purple before the stars began to twinkle within it. Together, they feasted in silence on the variety of fruit. Clearly the King thought better of these fruits than the  _ferna_. Lothíriel was sure her lips would be stained from all the dark juice, but the darkness kept her from worrying about it. When the last berries were eaten and the shells and seeds thrown into the sea, the King stretched out on his leaves, some three feet from Lothíriel, and gave a contented sigh.

"I have never tasted such a variety of fruit," he told her, though she had guessed as much. "I wish they might grow in my homeland!"

"You could have saved the seeds," Lothíriel said. "At least those of the  _mugua_ ; we use it in poultices to heal bruises."

"Really?" The King sounded interested. "We use witch hazel, I think."

" _Mugua_  is better," she declared. "But witch hazel is well enough."

She felt, rather than saw, the King's glittering eyes on her in the twilight, and she stiffened. "You astonish me," he said after a moment. "A princess of Gondor who can navigate better than any man I have met, who has the knowledge to survive alone on an island and the herblore to discuss medicinal plants. And—" Here he paused. "Who has the bravery to dive into the sea during a storm to save a man she does not know."

Lothíriel flushed with pleasure at such a compliment, though she hastened to dissuade his admiration. "Then you should hear me play the lyre," she said. "Then you will know I am as human as anyone else—after your ears cease to bleed, that is."

The King propped himself on his elbow, still watching her. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what? Play the lyre, you mean? It was a required lesson when I was—"

"No." His voice cut across her. "Why did you save me?"

"Oh." Lothíriel could think of what to say. That he was, in a way, her adopted brother? Her friend? That she felt guilty for refusing to wed him? That the thought of him dying made her heart prickle with discomfort? "My brothers were otherwise occupied," she decided. "We could not allow a foreign king to die in our care."

"It was an accident," he protested. "My own ruddy fault for rushing to the side to vomit—may as well have done it anywhere on the ship, with all the water pouring in—"

"You did not fully understand the danger—"

"I could have guessed. I am not  _that_  thick."

Silence followed this. The King's voice had grown agitated, as if he was angry at himself. Lothíriel, feeling uncomfortable, brought her ratty, crusted braid over her shoulder and began to unplait it, her fingers tugging out the salt and sand. "More experienced sailors have done worse," she said quietly. "Do not blame yourself. You did well pulling us towards the boat—if only the rope had not snapped...if anything, I am to blame, for I should have chosen a thicker rope."

Still the King's gaze had not left her, though he was slow to speak again. "I cannot—Lothíriel, I cannot thank you enough for saving my life. While my death might not have been the disaster as you seem to believe, I do enjoy life, and for what you did, you have earned my gratitude and loyalty forever."

Lothíriel was discomfited by this speech. She was not sure how she felt to have earned the King of Rohan's loyalty; she was merely a princess, after all, and would not be commanding any king in any foreseeable future. "I only did what anyone would have done," she said. "And besides...you saved my life as well by bringing me to this island. I consider any debts settled."

"That does not signify. My feelings are unchanged."

She finished braiding her hair and shook it out, sand splattering the  _dayig_  leaves. After deftly plaiting her hair once more, Lothíriel brushed the sand from her sleeping place before lying gingerly down on her back, her hands folded on her stomach and staring at the sky. Tomorrow they might be rescued, at least, or else they might become very weary of an only-fruit diet.

"Sleep well." The King's voice broke the quiet.

"And you." Lothíriel yawned, turned on her side away from him, and closed her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

By morning no ship had come. Lothíriel suppressed disappointment as she took a stroll, just after dawn, circling the entirety of the island. It was too soon for anyone to come; by her calculations the earliest they could be rescued would be noon. She would not allow herself to hope for anything before dusk, however.

Her clothing was crusted to her skin, rubbing painfully against the scratches and tender skin, and despite what the King thought of her, she saw no possible remedy during her walk. The stiffness in her muscles, however, might be worked out, and so she stretched as she wandered about. Her flexibility returned reasonably quickly; she could not complain.

Lothiriel's short traipse brought her back to the beach where they had slept, and to her surprise the King was awake and standing facing the sea, his arms crossed and looking very stern indeed. And even more surprising, a thick weight of discouragement settled on her stomach at the sight. She had forgotten her initial dislike of him; the previous day he had been kind, even showing a sense of humor...it was this, the grim, cold man, that she had refused to marry. If she had known what lay beneath that demeanor, would she have been so quick to deny a wedding?

"Warn me afore you feed me any more mysterious fruits again," he said without turning. "An itemized list of possible symptoms, if you please."

Lothíriel gave a short laugh. "An itemized—? Oh, come off it! We did not eat anything spoiled, and I am perfectly well."

The King grunted in response. "The uncomfortable night I had would suggest otherwise."

"Really! I am not ill one bit."

"How fortunate for you." The King turned then, his expression softening slightly, though still he sighed. "I will not partake of any more fruit. Will I have a good chance of catching any fish?"

"How much fishing have you done in your life?"

"Er—"

Lothíriel sighed, shaking her head and unable to keep from grinning. "Then you have no chance at all. Accept that your future will be filled with mysterious fruit."

The King grimaced, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "If we will be rescued soon enough, I shall fast."

"But why suffer?" she asked. "And what on earth did that fruit do to you that has turned you against it? I enjoyed it immensely!"

"Never you mind," he said crossly. "Even with no chance of catching a fish, I wish to try. Give me direction if you will, or I shall try whatever bad idea pops into my head."

"You sound like Amrothos: ' _Do what I want or I will do something stupid_.' Not a very successful strategy, but I will help you anyways. There certainly is little else to do."

"Then let us begin."

It took no small amount of trouble to find a stick to Lothíriel's liking; most of the trees on the island had little in the way of hard branches due to the soaking wet of the rainstorm the previous day, but at last in the midst of dense brush she found a decently sized branch. The King lent her his knife for her to straighten it as best she could, shortening the stick to a length of four feet or so and sharpening one end to a sharp point. He looked on as she worked, not speaking.

"A shame we have no twine," she said, feeling the tip with her finger. "It would be a better gamble to tie your knife to the end, as it is a great deal sharper than this shoddy work."

The King smiled wanly. "We will see."

"Come on then." Lothíriel threw the makeshift spear at the King, who caught it. "I found some shallows during my walk this morning; that will be the best place to start."

Said shallows were located at the northwestern part of the island, where an sunny inlet beckoned in all sorts of sea plants and creatures. It was a perfect choice for catching fish, and shielding her eyes from the sun, Lothíriel observed quickly and in detail the foliage and sand around them as she bent over to roll up the legs of her trousers.

"The highest chance of success you will have," she told the King, who watched her warily for a moment before copying her actions. "Is to stand as still as a statue about twelve feet in. The fish will swim close to you then, as long as you do nothing to spook them. Then you might spear one. I have no advice on that topic, and I am sure you have more experience with a spear than myself."

The King straightened, and with a hard smile, twirled the spear expertly in one hand. "Never for fish," he said. "This will be a new skill for me."

Together they sloshed barefoot into the warm water, Lothíriel's eyes fastened on the seabed below. As expected, there were flurries of bright silvers and greens and yellows as dozens of fish swam away from them, and she held out an arm to stop their progress.

"This is where you should wait," she told him, and pointed underneath the surface of the water. "Certain fish hide in the weeds there, and others like to eat it."

"As you say."

With no other response forthcoming, Lothíriel left the King to his hunt, trying to make as few splashes as possible as she returned to shore. However promising the location was to obtain food, she had as little confidence in his abilities as he had expressed. She made for the trees; a more thorough search of the area would hopefully yield not only fresh water, but insects to bait fish as well.

The shade of the trees gave little relief from the sun. Muggy heat made her clothing stick to her skin uncomfortably, and she tried to fan herself as she searched the undergrowth. Fresh water would most likely to be found near the densest growth of plants, and finding such a place, she tore some away from the gritty ground. It was damp, and Lothíriel hoped it was from fresh water, and not still wet from the storm. There was little else she could do at present without some sort of spade, so she gathered a handful of caterpillars and beetles to return to the shallows.

Sunlight pierced her eyes as she left the shade, and she blinked several times before realizing the sight in front of her. The King had evidently found his task to be too warming, for he had removed his tunic and tossed it to the shore. He was facing away from her, his bronzed, muscled shoulders glinting in the sun. Lothíriel snapped her mouth shut (somehow it had opened of its own accord), and she walked on strangely numb legs to a point closer to where he was standing in the water. He was perfectly still, and though he glanced at her with a tight smile to show that he knew she was there, he did not speak or move otherwise.

Lothíriel sat on the sand, keeping her eyes averted as she focused on the slimy, wriggling bugs in her hand. She picked up a caterpillar, positioned it on the flat of her opposite hand, and aiming deftly, she gave it a mighty  _flick_ and it soared across the sparkling water to plop in near the King. A beetle followed, though it fell short, and enjoying the practice, Lothíriel flicked them all out in rapid succession. That ought to be enough to tempt the fish.

"Have you done this before?" The King's voice was low, but it carried across the lagoon easily.

"Not precisely," Lothíriel admitted. "I know the theory of spear fishing, though I have never tried it. I care little for the sport."

He grunted in response. "As little as I am beginning to, I wager."

"Do not give in so soon!" she said. "Otherwise the fish will approach as soon as you leave."

"That would be my luck."

"Such little optimism! I will tell you what: I shall go about building a fire. Then you simply must hold out until you catch a fish."

"A fire!" The King nearly shouted as he turned to her, looking askance. "We should have done that last night! Any searchers could have found us—"

"Do not frighten your supper away," Lothíriel said coolly. "We might have done so, it is true, but there would not have been any ships in the area; either by chance, due to the storm, or sent by my father, as it was too soon."

Mollified, he shook his head, returning his eyes to the water. "Then we should build one tonight."

"Certainly." Lothíriel stood to leave, brushing the sand from her trousers. "If there is any dry wood to be found, that is."

Another hour of searching yielded little, but that was more than enough time for her to decide to lay out the most promising branches of wood in the sun, away from the tide of the ocean, to dry more quickly. With the dry sticks she was able to find, she set about attempting to make a fire. It was slow work, and after rubbing her hands raw on the wood for nearly an hour, Lothíriel gave up with a huff and threw the sticks angrily at the sea just as the King was walking down towards her down the beach.

"My, my," he said, and with a smug grin, stuck his spear into the ground, on which now hung several brightly-colored fish. "I suppose the fire has not cooperated?"

Lothíriel sniffed, unable to help noticing that he had replaced his tunic. "You could put it that way, I suppose. I am impressed by your catch."

"Why, thank you. Now let us see if my luck will extend to a fire, eh?"

A few minutes later his quick actions resulted in a small, flickering flame, but she was too impressed to be irritated any longer. She busied herself instead preparing spits on which to cook the fish. He had fed the fire several pieces of wood, and was now gutting the fish with his knife. Though they worked in silence, they were efficient, and soon the smell of cooking fish made Lothíriel's stomach rumble with hunger. She tore open a fleshy  _dayig_  fruit from the previous day, and to the King's alarm, began to squeeze juice over the sizzling fish.

"You said that fruit causes fevers!" he said.

"The raw fruit does, yes," Lothíriel replied. "The cooked juice is quite safe, however. It will add a better flavor to your meal; it will not need any other seasoning."

"I was not so informed yesterday," the King said gruffly. "Perhaps you should educate me of  _all_  the properties of  _all_  the other fruits as well, so I am not so utterly ignorant."

She lifted her brows at this, glancing at his dubious features from across the small fire. "Are you referring to your illness last night?" Lothíriel asked. "Tell me your symptoms, then, and I will search the memories I have of my studies of flora."

He was grimacing, refusing to meet her eye, which only deepened both her amusement and curiosity. At last he spoke again, as if the words were forced from him, "It is not a matter to discuss with a lady."

"Ahhh…" Lothíriel, while perfectly sheltered as a 'lady', had lived too long with her older brothers to remain totally ignorant. Suddenly the King's reluctance to speak made complete sense. She stood and walked into the trees once more, searching for only a few minutes until she found what she wanted, and tugging several green fruits from the ground where they were protruding, returned to the beach to show them to the King.

" _Buti_ ," she explained, passing one to him. "I have heard it told—and read in numerous books—that many people favor it as an aphrodisiac. Though I have always been skeptical of such an effect of  _any_ food, many men swear by it."

The King looked up at her, his brows raised. "And you know that—how?"

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "I am not deaf to gossip nor too noble to be interested in it. And anyway, _buti_  is served at the spring solstice in many forms; stewed, fermented, grilled, poached—for fertility."

"Fertility!" he said, scoffing as he tossed it back onto the sand. "It plays mind tricks, that does."

"Well, I have never heard  _that_. But there, now you know. Be aware before you partake in the future!"

There was a pause as the King turned the fish on the spit; they were nearly cooked through, and residue  _dayig_  juice dripped onto the fire. "You are not bothered by it? The  _buti_ , I mean."

Lothíriel shrugged. "I never have been before. And I enjoy it well enough that it shall be my luncheon while you eat your fish."

"My—you mean, our fish?" The King, in the process of trying to slide a fish off of the spit with another stick onto a clean leaf, glanced at her. "I cannot eat all this alone."

Suppressing a flush, she said hastily, "You caught it yourself, I did not intend to assume—"

But he was already handing the leaf to her, on which he had piled three of the steaming fish, his eyes locked into hers. "Whatever you think of me," he began, his voice stiff, "I am not such an arse that I would not share my meal—any meal—with a comrade. And I could not have caught anything without you, Lothíriel."

She smiled, tremulously, and nearly jumped out of her skin when his hand brushed against hers as she accepted the leaf. "I would offer you the  _buti_  in return," she said. "But…"

"Do not!" The King burst into laughter, and Lothíriel knew he had forgiven the fruit.

They ate in a companionable silence, facing the sea together. The only discomfort was her thoughts of his earlier words, and when she could bear it no longer she said in a quiet voice, "I do not think you are an arse, my lord."

He glanced lazily over at her. "I think we have quite reached the point where you may call me by my given name."

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue about what exactly she should call him by, as whatever sort of relationship they now had would dictate, but Lothíriel only said coolly, "Then I do not think you an arse,  _Éomer._ "

"I thank you for the compliment. I am sure I do not deserve your confidence but I am grateful for it, all the same."

She was mildly surprised, though it lessened as she considered it, that he allowed the topic to drop just then; her brothers would have fished for further compliments. It seemed Éomer either disbelieved her entirely, or was not the sort to deliberately flame his own self-importance. Lothíriel waited a moment, and then asked in genuine interest, "What does your name mean in your tongue?"

"Grand horse, by literal translation."

Lothíriel smothered her titters by taking another bite of fish. "You do not look very horse-like to me," she said after swallowing, smiling over at him. He chuckled.

"Were my cousin alive, he would tell you I was born ugly enough to be mistaken for one," Éomer said. "And I must beg of you—do not tell me you agree! I have been sufficiently humbled these last days; any more is unnecessary."

"I do not agree," Lothíriel assured him, though her wayward thoughts sent a warm feeling of his attractiveness through her limbs. Somehow the vision of him, half-nude in the shallows, recalled itself swiftly.

"And your name? My Sindarin is barely proficient."

"It is close to 'flower garlanded maiden.' Also clearly as misguiding as yours; as you can see, I do not go around with flowers 'round my head. 'Twould become most uncomfortable!"

Éomer laughed at that, and Lothíriel prickled with pleasure. "Rather, the added beauty of blossoms would put we mortal men further from you, rather," he suggested, and her tingles ceased with abrupt confusion. "I am thankful you abstain."

Staring down at the pile of fish bones on her leafy plate, she found herself speechless. So she cleared her throat, and said with perhaps too much vigor, "If you have no other schemes for this afternoon—I would very much like to learn some of your language."

"In a single afternoon?" His tone was one of skeptical amusement.

"There is no saying how long we will be stuck here," Lothíriel said briskly. "May as well do something useful."

"Or take the time to relax from duties." Éomer discarded the remains of his meal with a grin towards her. "Not a single counsellor chasing me around—I have not remembered to appreciate the peace thus far."

"Court ladies," Lothíriel agreed with unnecessary vehemence. "I do swear—this is the longest I have gone in  _weeks_  without having to listen to superficial gossip regarding who-wishes-to-marry-whom and who-is-pregnant-by-whom and who-gambles-too-much."

Éomer glanced at her, his smile lingering. "I thought you enjoyed gossip."

"Useful gossip," she said tartly. "The sum total of gambling debts of whomever I have never met is  _not_  useful."

"And all the matchmaking rumors?"

Lothíriel was silent for moment, unsure how to respond. She tossed away her scraps and stretched out her legs on her  _dayig_  leaf. "Now if I was to hear of Amrothos's impending wedding, I should be interested," she said. "But Lord Whatsit of Wherever and Lady Whomever of Just Over There, not so."

"Fair enough." Éomer was reclining on his back, supporting his head as he gazed out at the sea. Once again, Lothíriel wondered if her father had ever approached the King of Rohan regarding a match between him and herself… Though she was enjoying his company more than expected, she was not quite comfortable enough to ask him plainly, and so she bit back a sigh.

" _Westu hál_ ," he said suddenly, and she nearly jumped.

"Bless you—" she began.

"It means 'be well,'" Éomer told her. "It is a greeting. Go on, then. I will teach you."

Lothíriel's subsequent mangling of the Rohirric language, rather than offend him, seemed to bring Éomer a great deal of delight. He laughed uproariously before correcting her each time, but she was not offended either, especially as the possibility of using such Rohirric phrases in the future as ' _my horse is white_ ' and  _'where is the nearest tavern_ ' was low. But somehow, within the echoes of his voice, any anxiety that they might not be rescued, did not even occur to her. She was feeling too light-hearted, too cheerful…

Eventually, with the beginning of the sinking of the sun in the dusky purple sky, they had to search out more  _ferna_  for drink and to soothe their throats from so much talking. Then they returned to the beach, and sat in quietude gazing at the horizon. Lothíriel both hoped and dreaded seeing the sails of a ship approaching.

" _Ic leornesse náwa for ahlog swá forswiðe eac swelc sum fæger for_ _wif_ ," Éomer broke the silence with a low voice, more solemn now than he had been that afternoon.

Lothíriel smiled up at him; somehow when they had returned from the trees, they had come to be sitting much nearer, and she could see the dimples around his mouth as he smiled back. "You will have to say that more slowly," she said, mocking severity. "One word at a time, please; I only recognized the first."

His grin was both wicked and cryptic. "Not this time, Lothíriel. You shall have to puzzle that one out yourself."

"Bother!" she said crossly, though she could not truly be annoyed with him.

"Perhaps you need a Rohirric name," Éomer suggested. "That might somehow assist you in your learning, though it would take a near miracle."

"Ha," Lothíriel sniffed. "Give me one, then."

"Er—literally, I suppose you could be called, _Blóstm-cynehealm-mæg_. A bit of a mouthful though, do you not think?"

"Eugh!"

"Here is an idea: Hleahtorbære."

She eyed him, untrusting. "And what does that mean? Idiot? Rascal?"

"Neither!" Éomer laughed. "I would not be so unkind. It is the word for one who causes laughter, because you have made me laugh more today than I have in years."

Lothíriel was both startled and flattered by this, and the unfamiliar glint in his eyes only increased her feelings. "That is hardly commendatory," she decided to say. "If that were my name, people would think me no more than a common jester! A joke, really."

"I do doubt anyone could."

"And it is quite hard to say as well," she said. "Is there not something shorter?"

Éomer pondered this. "Hleah would be an appropriate shortname. Do you like it?"

"I do." She turned away so that he would not see any traitorous blush. He could have named her a goose and she would still treasure it.

The fire had long since died, and though remembering Éomer's advice that they light it to alert any searchers to their position, Lothíriel was reluctant to break the spell that was now surrounding them. Rescue, though an immediate concern, was far from her mind. There was only the darkening sky, the twinkling stars and the rushing whoosh of the tide as it swept on the beach...somewhere, there were insects chirping and she could hear the occasional  _splash_  of fish feeding on the surface.

"It is very pretty," Éomer said softly. "I suppose I did not expect to find such a wonderful place here." She only hummed in agreement, and a moment later she startled as she felt his fingers touch hers on the sand, and she jerked her hand away. Had he meant to do that?

"It is growing late!" Lothíriel said, too loudly to be wholly natural. "I am starving, too; I had not noticed. Where is the  _buti_?"

"Dare I give it to you?"

"Oh, shush,  _you_  should be named rascal—" Despite his teasing, Éomer handed to her the fruit, and Lothíriel wasted no time to peel the skin and pop several berries into her mouth.

"Would you care for a snack?" she asked innocently, though it was unlikely he could see her grin in the twilight. "There is plenty, to be sure."

His response was swift and harsh. "No, thank you."

"Oh, come now—'tis not so bad…"

"You would have to tie me down and force it down my throat!" Éomer declared. "Never have I spent a night in such discomfort."

"'Tis delicious…" Lothíriel said in a singsong voice, and aiming as best she could, she pelted a berry towards Éomer, and it hit his shoulder.

"I do not deny that, but the consequences—really, I do not think either of us would wish—Béma, woman! Are you an archer? How have you such accurate aim?" Another missile had hit his forehead, and he rubbed it ruefully.

"This is not the first time I have thrown fruit at a person," she admitted. "Erchirion—well, he was once rude to me at supper, and I...well. I am not  _proud_  of what I did, per say, but it did give me a sick sort of satisfaction to see his face and neck stained purple from my retaliation for days afterward."

Éomer was chuckling, throwing the berries which had congregated on his lap towards the sea. "Remind me never to cross you," he said, and then, as if to himself, he muttered, "'Well-behaved princess,' indeed!"

"What—what did... _well-behaved_? Who said that? Of whom are you referring?"

He glanced at her, askance, before shaking his head. "You. Your brother Elphir either knows you not at all, or has blinded himself completely."

"Elphir said that of  _me_?" Lothíriel laughed in astonishment. "That little git! He must have thought it expedient; he never stretches the truth unless it is for a purpose."

Éomer grunted in response, and offered no further explanation. Despite herself, Lothíriel yawned hugely. The sun had been down for at least an hour or more, but she still vaguely sore from the previous day's ordeal. She brushed the sand off of her  _dayig_ leaves before lying down.

"Tomorrow we need more water," she said sleepily, yawning once more as Éomer crawled over to his sleeping space. "And...the fire. We should probably do the fire as well."

"Should we build it now? Will they search in the dark?"

She was already half-asleep when he posed these questions, and she took a moment before answering. "No. Not even Amrothos is stupid enough to try to scour the seas for two people in the dark. Good night, Éomer."

"Good night,  _mín_ Hleah."


	4. Chapter 4

Lothíriel woke in a cold sweat the following morning before dawn, just as the first rays of light from the sun were streaking across the sky. She lay on her back, breathing heavily as she tried to recall what exactly had woken her—it was another dream, surely. There had been no rest for her that night; rather, Lothíriel had been jolted to consciousness several times by the uncomfortable paths through dreaming her mind seemed inclined to take. The details of the dreams—and why exactly they had disturbed her so—were now so fuzzy she gave it up as a bad job and stood, stretching as she searched the horizon for a boat. No luck.

Her clothing, dirty and caked with sand and salt, was becoming especially painful on her still-healing cuts and bruises. It was clearly past time for a wash. Even a wash in saltwater would be some improvement; perhaps Lothíriel might even clean her clothing somehow, if she had aught else to wear in its stead. The answer to that came so abruptly that she nearly laughed aloud—her oilskins, of course! They lay, ragged and dirty, where she had left them that first day, and she bent to scoop them up from the sand as she made her way towards the shallows.

Despite knowing that no one else could possibly be watching her (Éomer had still been fast asleep when she departed the beach), Lothíriel was hesitant to strip down to her bare skin. Looking warily around—as it would be her luck for a rescue ship to happen upon them just as she was wearing naught but her skin—she quickly removed her tunic and trousers, and gathering them to her chest, scampered into the sea.

The night air had cooled the water more than she expected, and she swallowed a howl of shock as she submerged herself all the way to her chin. Shivering, she immediately began scrubbing her clothing together underneath the water (it was better than nothing), and after a few moments decided they were as good as they were going to get, and she lifted them out, dripping water, and wrung them out with her chilled hands.

It was here here plan failed her; she did not wish to leave the relative modesty of the shallows to place her clothes out to dry. Lothíriel looked about, and to her great fortune, saw several low hanging trees above the far end of the protruding beach near where the shallows met the ocean. Unable to swim with her burden, she hopped over and draped her clothes as neatly as she could on some branches. Satisfied, Lothíriel swam out a bit further and dunked her head under the water, closing her eyes tightly. The water blocked out her senses, and she stayed underwater for some minutes before returning for air. Already she felt cleaner, and thinking wistfully of soap, she undid her plait and began to run her fingers through her tangled hair to her best ability.

By this time the sun had risen above the horizon, and the azure water around her was sparkling cheerily, beckoning her to swim further. Lothíriel was enjoying herself immensely, forgetting quickly the uncomfortable dreams she'd had during the night, and began to dive, interested in what fish or foliage she might find below.

Fish darted away from her as she swam towards the seabed, fingering lightly the plans she knew to be harmless. The sea urchins she did not touch, and for fear of harming it she neither disturbed the coral. Then around a moss-covered rock, she saw the alarmingly bright-green of a plant she recognized, and dived for at once. The roots were not deep, which was very well as her air began to run out, and she returned to the surface feeling positively gleeful. She swam to the nearest stretch of beach and tossed it ashore, and then another idea sparking, she crawled out to dig a hole in the sand.

There was really enough food on and around the island to last them for quite some time, she thought, had they the patience to retrieve it. So she took a deep breath and dived down once more, scouring behind rocks and filling her fists with several small clams with bright markings. Handful after handful, she returned to the surface to throw them in her makeshift hole, tossing seawater onto them to keep them mussels alive as long as possible. The task took no longer than twenty minutes, by her guess, for the clams grew in abundance where they were not regularly harvested by humans. One final trip below, and she would have more than enough to feed them both; Lothíriel swam further from the shallows towards a particularly promising mound of rocks before diving under.

She had just finished gathering enough clams, feeling enormously pleased with herself, when her eyes caught sight of something that nearly terrified her out of her wits—a long, golden form swimming some distance from her. It looked like no sea creature she knew of; could it be some sort of monster? Lothíriel dropped the clams in fear, kicking backwards to return to the beach as quickly as she could, lest it catch sight of her and decide she be its breakfast…

Indeed, it did turn towards her just as she was about to break the surface, and to her surprise it did not look a monster, but a man, but her panic only increased.

Éomer was gasping for breath above the surface, just as she was, some fifteen feet away. Lothíriel spluttered angrily; his nudity was not lost on her.

"You idiot!" she shouted, spewing water everywhere as she waved her arms in outrage. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Same as you!" he retorted, a scowl drawing his brows together. "I am allowed to bathe just as you, lady!"

She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, then immediately regretted it, and sunk lower in the water. "You should have known I was here!" Lothíriel spat. "Did you wake and think I had just walked home? That I was sleeping in a tree instead?"

"No! I—I...I only did not realize I had come so far! Nor did I know your location—"

"Well, go away!" she said. "Swim back! Go on!"

Éomer was shaking his head in ire, but did as she bade, turning before stroking back to the west from where he came. Lothíriel stayed put, treading water for several minutes as she tried to calm herself. Even when he was long out of sight, she fumed, from both the humiliating encounter and her even more embarrassing (and unnecessary) reaction to what he claimed to be a simple mistake. That much she could not help but believe, although in the distant part of her mind where the memories of her dreams were tucked away a violent, flaring hope that he  _had_  wished to see her caused her to shriek aloud in frustration and confusion before she swam back into the shallows.

Wrapped tightly in her oilskins with the clams and seaweed tied in her drying tunic, Lothíriel was hard-pressed to force past her hesitation to ever see Éomer again (if the sand swallowed her just then, she would not have complained one bit). She stalked back towards the western beach, her gaze on the ground and muttering angrily under her breath. Unfortunately, she passed through the trees and stepped on the beach just as Éomer did from the opposite direction, thankfully now clothed, wet hair plastered on his head, and carrying several fresh fruits. Their eyes met, and Lothíriel flushed red before continuing on.

"Breakfast," she said shortly, tossing her tunic onto the sand. "I hope you can stomach mussels."

"As do I." His tone was not encouraging, and Lothíriel sniffed as she sunk onto the sand and began to rummage through the clams.

"They are perfectly good raw," she informed him. "The fresher, the better. If you wait too long, they will make you sick."

"I suppose the fire will have to wait then."

"I suppose so."

Éomer had sat down some distance away, and Lothíriel began to pry the clams apart with her fingernails before sucking out the salty insides. He copied her motions, with some trepidation, and she noticed his sickened expression as he swallowed his first one with a measure of unladylike smugness.

"Not bad," he said, and then half-choked.

"Better than starving," Lothíriel said primly. "And better than  _buti_." A sick knowing settled on her stomach as she said it, and she turned away from him as she felt another blush threatening. Of course! It was the fruit that had undoubtedly caused her unpleasant dreams the night before. The  _buti_  had never affected her before, and now it had taken its revenge: even without the encounter in the sea, she probably would not have been able to meet the King of Rohan's eyes.

"Lothíriel…" His mild voice broke through several minutes later. "We should talk about—you know..."

She stole a glance at him, but he was not looking her way. "I would rather not," Lothíriel admitted. "A blessed case of amnesia would not go amiss, if I am being truthful."

Éomer grinned at her, and she quickly looked back at her present clam. "Come now," he said. "What happened to the woman who throws fruit at her brother when he speaks out of turn? There is no reason to be ashamed; it was only a mischance, after all."

"Pass me the red fruit, will you?" Lothíriel said coolly, unwilling to speak on it further. He did so, retrieving his knife from his boot as well and giving it to her. She hacked at the hard outer shell of the fruit for some time, releasing her frustration, before the skin broke open. Seedy white flesh filled the air with sweetness, and she gave half to Éomer along with his knife.

"This is a safe one, I hope," he said, his voice and teasing now perfectly normal. "No fevers, no—er, sensual tendencies or otherwise—"

"None. Though if you eat too much at once you will suffer from dysentery. That can be true of any fruit, however."

Éomer laughed long at that, and a far less awkward silence surrounded them as they devoured the fruit. Lothíriel was feeling very satisfied, though her thirst was increasing. "We need water," she said aloud as she threw the husk of the fruit into the ocean. "Real water. I found a place yesterday that might have some under the roots of the trees."

"A fine thing to do. Let us go then—"

"You first," Lothíriel said quickly. "Go over there—" she pointed towards the southeast. "There is a clump of bushes with green berries. I am going to stay here and dress myself."

"Very well, very well…"

She waited until she could no longer hear him trampling through the underbrush, then tore off the oilskins hastily and near fell over trying to put on her trousers. Then she took the still-damp bits of seaweed she had pulled from the shallows, placing them carefully on her most tender cuts and bruises, wincing. The pain faded quickly when in contact with the plants, and as they were sticky she need not bandage them on, which was well as she had no bandages at all. Once her tunic was safely on her shoulders, Lothíriel glanced back at the trees, letting out a breath when she saw nothing out of the ordinary. While she trusted Éomer well enough, the awkwardness of possibly being watched could not leave her. She plaited her hair with trembling fingers, and then followed his broken path.

When she arrived at the clump of trees, Éomer was already on his knees and up to his shoulders, digging moist earth out from underneath a particularly stately  _buti_  tree. "It is getting muddy," he informed her, without looking 'round. "Clever eyes of yours to have spotted this place; I do believe I will hit a spring soon."

"Good," Lothíriel said, moving out of the way as he tossed a clump of mud onto the ground. There was not enough space for her to assist, so she went about the trees searching for anything to carry water in. Had they been clever enough, they might have saved the shells of the  _ferna_  for such a purpose. Eventually she found a relatively small  _dayig_  leaf lying at the bottom its tree, looking freshly fallen. She shredded several leathery pieces from the thick ribs, and returned to sit by a tree next to the still-working Éomer, and began to fold the pieces into sort-of bowls.

"Got it." The echoing grunt came from Éomer, who was crouched so far into the hole that the entirety of his head and shoulders could not be seen. He was clearly a fast worker. Rising from his hole, he shook his wet hair back with a grin. Mud caked his arms and his tunic, which Lothíriel noticed quite undid his morning bath. He continued, "It is bubbling up now with a mighty vengeance. We shan't thirst any time soon."

"That is well," Lothíriel said passing him the bowls she had made, which he examined with interest.

"Nicely done."

"I thank you."

Once he had passed her the first bowl of clear water, she drank greedily and uncaring of propriety. She had not realized the extent of what was likely the verge of dehydration, and Éomer gallanty fetched them both bowl after bowl until they were at last sated.

Éomer was the first to speak, a teasing grin forming on his face as he glanced at her across the small clearing. "Do you know, with a fresh water spring, fruit trees and the fish and other creatures of the ocean, I should think we could live here for quite some time."

"Of course!" Lothíriel said, and then laughed. "It does make me wonder of the legend of Amroth. Do you think he survived and found an island like this one, and to this day is content to merely sit on the beach and gorge himself?"

Éomer joined in, chuckling.

"I would hate to be here in the rain, though," she added after a moment. "And I would miss soap, and proper clothing, and walls to protect from storms."

"If we are here long enough, we ought to be able to solve all of those concerns," he said thoughtfully. "And now that you mention rain—does it look overcast to you?"

Unfortunately Lothíriel was forced to agree, and quickly fetched her oilskins from the beach while Éomer stowed the makeshift bowls safely underneath the roots of a  _dayig_  tree.

Some time later they came to be huddled together underneath her oilskins, which they held above their heads as they sat underneath the thickest cover of the trees, which admittedly was not very helpful. It was a cool, even rain, which made Lothíriel guess that it came from the north to herald the end of the summer months, but she was not cold: Éomer's body, so close to hers, radiated an inordinate amount of heat, and even with her damp feet and hands she was comfortable.

"No fire then," he said dully. "Sometime we ought to get around to that, you know."

"The rain will end soon," Lothíriel said. "In this part of the world, it begins quickly and ends just as fast. Storms such as our earlier experience are relatively rare." The splatters of water falling on the leaves and then dripping to the earth pleasant enough to listen to, and the smell of complete freshness filled her nose.

"Do you think anyone will find us?"

Éomer's question, posed more solemnly than she expected considering how wonderful she was feeling, left Lothíriel speechless for a moment. "Of course we will!" she said. "You are too important to abandon."

He snorted, perhaps in disbelief. "It would work out, one way or another, if we are abandoned. I will miss my horse, though."

"Some fish 'round this area are large enough to ride," Lothíriel suggested. "Whether or not they can be trained is a matter of debate, but if you find yourself becoming too restless…too much time on your hands, that is..."

"I shan't have any extra time if I continue to teach you Rohirric," Éomer said, his eyes bright as he grinned at her. "It is a hopeless enough cause that we could probably live here for a decade and you would still sound as though you have cotton in your mouth."

"Very amusing," she said coolly. "But I would think, at the ten-year mark, the teacher would be to blame rather than the student."

"Perhaps you ought to correct my tragic Sindarin, then."

"Perhaps I have a better idea of what constitutes a lost cause."

His brows few upwards, the smile on his face tilting further upwards. "Is that a challenge?"

"Do you know," Lothíriel interrupted. "I am beginning to think you enjoy bickering as much as my brothers; I would not have thought it of you. I mean, really—"

The remainder of her words, however, stayed somewhere between her brain and her lips, for just at that moment and without a warning, Éomer leaned forward and covered her mouth with his own.

Her ears rang, blocking out the sound of the rain. Her face had gone numb and her legs were trembling, and only a single, dazed thought worked itself into her consciousness….  _This is nice…_

It was unlike any account Lothíriel had ever read of kissing in her novels; instead of gentle brush of lips, Éomer seemed to be intent on marking her, branding her...and it was working excessively well. Even before he drew away, she knew that for better or worse, she was in love for the remainder of her life.

His eyes had both darkened and softened as he gazed intently down at her, and Lothíriel could only blink in response. "Oh," she said stupidly.

"Oh, indeed," Éomer's tone was grave. "Do you know,  _mín_ Hleah, that the only reason I have yet to descend into insanity in your intoxicating presence is the stubborn belief that you refused to marry me merely because you did not know me?"

"Oh," she said again, not knowing at all. "But—but you did not know me, either."

"A fair point," he grinned. "But now I do, and I am feeling the rejection all the more keenly."

"But—but…"

"Lothíriel,  _hleahtorbære_ , do not think for a moment that I underestimate your intelligence one whit, but I beg of you—do not think  _too_ much, not now."

Éomer's plea was such a perfect blend of sincerity and desperation that she obliged, and without thinking leaned forward to kiss him herself.

He cast aside the oilskin and pulled her close into his arms, responding fiercely as his beard scraped against her chin. Lothíriel could feel, as though from far away, rivulets of chilly rain dripping down her head and neck, but it did not bother her. A blossom of intense heat seemed to be seeping into her body from where Éomer was touching her, and she quivered—not from cold, but from pleasure. She was suddenly aware of how much larger he was than herself, though she was equally unaware how she came to be sprawled across his lap.

They continued this way for some time, becoming soaked to their skins in the rain and not at all noticing. There came a pivotal moment, just as Éomer's hot, damp hand was exploring the skewed neckline of her tunic, when a startling loud  _Hallooooo!_  echoed through the copse of trees.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily and Lothíriel's heart pounding with both fright and disappointment. The call came again, and Éomer gave a bitter laugh, running his fingers through his wet hair.

"We appear to be rescued!" he said. "Though it does not quite feel like it."

"Y—yes...it would seem so…"

He helped her to her feet, (she was wary of whether they would support her weight, but thankfully the feeling seemed to be returning to her limbs), and hand-in-hand they walked towards the beach. A small dinghy had been anchored not ten feet from the wet remains of their fire, and a half-dozen men were scattered about the island as far as Lothíriel could see. One of them was familiar, and that one spotted them first, waving an arm at them, he shouted,

"Found you at last! And a merry chase, too. Erchirion and I had a bet on who would find you first, and I have won fifty glorious gold pieces!" Amrothos was looking mightily pleased with himself, though as they approached she noticed his right arm was in a sling. "Glad to see you are alive and well," he told them, patting Lothíriel's shoulder awkwardly. "Father is worried, and I—" He had caught sight of their clasped hands, and his mouth fell open. "Riel…" he said weakly. "You...you—"

"Take us home, Amrothos," she said. "That is what you are here for, after all."

"But I—"

"A fresh change of clothes would be appreciated as well," Lothíriel added. "Your men are already in the boat waiting for us, shall we?"

The rainstorm had left a dense grey fog over the island, and it was with no small amount of melancholy that she watched it disappear into the mist as they were rowed towards a large warship some way out. She had not thought to retrieve the oilskins, nor the bowls which she had labored to make. Neither was of any importance, but Lothíriel began to wish she had taken  _something_ , anything—for now she was beginning to feel resentful towards Amrothos for finding them at all.

Éomer said nothing during the short row though he did not release her hand either, and helped her to alight a rope ladder to climb onto the ship. The rain had ceased, and she shivered, this time from cold, taking in the sight of busy sailors around them.

"There are rooms and fresh things below," Amrothos said, his healthy hand taking her arm and steering her towards the door which led belowdecks. "The trip back to Dol Amroth will only take a half-day. 'Tis fortunate you were not dragged any further; I wonder if you would have lived to be found at all."

"We were perfectly well," Lothíriel assured him, looking over her shoulder for Éomer, who was just then climbing abroad. The dark hull of the ship swallowed her as she continued to speak, her heart wrenching. "There was plenty of fruit, and fish—we had just found a freshwater spring."

Amrothos scoffed. "Setting up a real home, apparently. Considering starting a population?"

She scowled, wrenching her arm away as he threw open the door of a small chamber for her. "That is none of your concern, brother. Keep your nose out of it!"

"Father is going to blame me for this, you know. And after you had shouted yourself silly refusing to marry the man—"

Lothíriel slammed the door behind her, blocking out Amrothos's angry face. Her emotions—between the intensity of kissing Éomer and the shock of being rescued so suddenly—were not at all under any sort of control, and she kicked over the chamber pot in frustration. A knock sounded at her door, and irrational hope that Éomer had come, she stumbled over her own feet to wrench it open—but it was only a short, terrified cabin boy, who held out a bundle of clean clothes to her with a squeaky, "For you, lady!" before rushing away.

What she really, truly wanted, though the clothes were a blessed relief, was a hot bath. But Lothíriel knew how her father's warships were stocked, and there would be nothing better than barrel and those were too large to fit in her tiny room. Fortunately the rain had done a reasonable job washing most of the salt from her skin, so she stripped down, dried herself in the air until she could not stand the cold any longer, and then dressed in the fresh frock the boy had brought.

By now her temper had mellowed, and with another bone to pick with her brother Lothíriel left her cabin with her head high in the air, and strode up to the topdeck where she knew he would be commanding the ship. Indeed, he was standing at the front of the quarterdeck, and he frowned as she approached.

"You should stay below; the weather is still—"

"Trousers would have been appreciated," Lothíriel said coolly. "But I think I will forgive you anyway. Where is Éomer?"

"Far from you, and for good reason. I will not be tolerating any nonsense on  _my_  ship; Father can sort you out."

" _Sort me out_? There is nothing—gods, Amrothos, you are an utter prick! Do you really think either Éomer or myself would allow you to order us about—"

"Riel, think for a moment." Amrothos's eyes were glittering dangerously. "I found you alone with a foreign king on an abandoned island. I have to report to Father. Do you think I should tell him what I saw, or what I have guessed by your complete lack of subtlety? Because I can assure you that  _how_ Father reacts to your little misadventure will depend solely upon me and my report, and should you be wanting his blessing to do—well…need I explain further?"

Lothíriel was furious; her fists were clenched at her side, trembling, as she glared with all her hateful might at her brother. "That is blackmail," she forced through gritted teeth.

"It is in your best interest," Amrothos said with finality. "And you are embarrassing yourself; Father does not hear my reports alone. You know how sailors gossip. Should he hear that you and Éomer—"

She turned on her heel, stomping down onto the main deck and belowdecks once more. Slamming her door the second time did not give her the any satisfaction, and she was left in misery, fuming, as she sat on the rickety cot. If Amrothos dared to tell their father some jumped-up story about her and Éomer misbehaving, she would wring his neck.

Éomer thought her intelligent, Amrothos thought her shameless...but Lothíriel knew in her heart that she was nothing but proud. She had never taking the bullying of her brothers well, and because she would have never matched them physically she had always sought to outsmart them. It had always worked, too, but now she just felt an unhealthy arrogance and indignation turning her against her brother.

But these angry thoughts soon faded away, and were replaced with a desperate serenity. There was nothing Amrothos could really do to prevent her and Éomer from marrying; assuming Éomer still had that wish. Father had approved the match months earlier, surely nothing would have changed to affect that…

She jolted awake some hours later, cramped and stiff from folding herself into a comfortable to fit into the tiny bed. How it fit sailors much larger than herself, she would never know. There were shouts above, and Lothíriel recognized the sound of the a gangplank being thrown onto a dock. She stood quickly, brushing down her rumpled skirt before rushing out of the room.

The sight of the white marble palace sparkling in the sunlight filled her with both relief and fear. Surely now that they were in the city, Amrothos would not deem it necessary to separate herself and Éomer...where was he? With the only remaining sailors in the rigging, she darted across the deck to lean over the rail, shielding her eyes as she searched the crowd on the deck below.

There! Éomer stood out, his golden hair gleaming and standing a head taller than most other men...her heart fluttered as she heard his laughter float up on the breeze towards her. He was surrounded by a knot of other blond men, dressed in the livery of his guard and who were greeting him with enthusiasm. A surprising tremble of disappointment faded the smile from Lothíriel's face. He had not waited for her before departing the ship...had he even asked of her? He had said he considered himself rejected of her, did he still think such a thing? After those kisses? Had he merely taken his pleasure with no intention of resuming his suit? Did he hold whatever feelings she might have developed in so little regard?

Soon the men of Rohan were walking back towards the city. Éomer had glanced back at the ship one last time, a concerned expression visible to Lothíriel's sharp eyes, but she ducked quickly behind the railing, embarrassed to be caught staring. When she looked again, his back was retreating, and her stomach was filled with lead.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a disheartened Lothíriel that was escorted back to the palace by her brother. He said nothing as they navigated the streets, and neither did she. She was given to a ladies' maid with no ceremony, and Amrothos stalked away without a word.

The sun was just descending from its peak, casting shimmering rays of yellows and oranges through the west-facing windows of the palace. Lothíriel sat in the hot bath with her back towards the window, unwilling to face the light as the maid washed her hair. She would not expected at dinner, it had been explained to her. Her father wanted to her to rest and recover.

But she knew she would never recover; not completely.

A morose mood settled on her, which intensified the following day as she received no visitors, wanted or unwanted. Lothíriel did not leave her room, fearing confrontation from a still-angry Amrothos or any demands to recount the entirety of the adventure to anyone else. The only comfort she had, cold as it was, was that the majority of her father's guests had left in the wake of the 'terrible tragedy' that was the loss of herself and Éomer. So there were fewer to witness her humiliation at having the gall to fall in love with a man she had rejected, apparently just because he had kissed her, and kissed her well.

Why had Éomer followed Amrothos's orders to stay away from her so willingly? Why had he not sought her out upon their return? Did he care for her, even at all?

The memory of their sojourn on the island, was both painful and beautiful. Lothíriel began to hate it, and with all of her rebellious thoughts darkening her scowl, she answered her father's summons two days later with little grace.

"Good evening, Father," she said stiffly, surrendering to an embrace and feeling littler than ever. She wished, for the hundredth time, that she might have inherited even a fraction of his height…

"Lothíriel, I am glad you are well," Father said, and escorted her to the balcony of his study, where several torches twinkled with the stars and cast a dim light over a meal. "Please, eat."

"I am not hungry," she said, which was mostly the truth. The sight of sliced  _ferna_  and  _buti_  made her stomach twist with unpleasantness.

"Hmm. So I have heard."

Of course, Father would have been told by the maids that she had been returning all her meal trays untouched. Lothíriel sat, her back ramrod straight, on the cushions of her chair, looking her father in the eye from across the small table.

"So. So, so so." There was a hint of a smile playing around his lips, and she bristled. She did not like being made a fool, and so waited patiently, her hands wringing together, until he spoke again. "Éomer has spoken highly of you, daughter. He said he would not have survived without you."

"He was going to eat fresh  _dayig_ ," Lothíriel said blandly. "So...right. He would not have survived."

"More than that," Father said. "I did not realize I had raised such a naturalist."

She laughed then, genuinely amused. "You are to thank, Father. You encouraged me to learn the ways of the land with Erchirion and Amrothos."

"A rare spot of wisdom; I do not know where that came from!"

"Oh, Da...do not be so disparaging of yourself! You must have known it a good notion." Cheered by his company, and glad that nothing else had been said of the King, Lothíriel reached for a slice of bread, which tasted strange after naught but fruit and fish. "All is well, Father; truly. I know that no lasting harm has occurred from these past days. There is no reason to dwell on it."

Father was leaning forward in his chair, studying her face intently. "Do you remember last spring, when you were eavesdropping on a certain, sensitive conversation regarding—"

"Yes," Lothíriel interrupted, her face hot. "What of it?"

"Have you…perhaps reconsidered?"

She stared at him, and then lowered the remainder of her bread to the table with trembling hands. "Reconsi—why...why should I? What has changed? I am still the same, and my desire not to wed a man I barely know is still as sure as ever, I promise you."

His eyes narrowed into shrewd slits. "Lothíriel, do not try to deceive me. I will tell you plainly, then, as you are determined to be unforthcoming: Éomer rushed to my study nearly the moment you docked, practically begging for me to allow him to try to woo you once more. And," Father added with a relishing grin. "He even asked for advice as to how he might succeed. That, if nothing else, has convinced me that he is thoroughly besotted with you."

Lothíriel scoffed, blinking several times as she looked anywhere but at her father. "He should have come to me, then," she said. "I make up my own mind, and Éomer—and you—would do well to remember it."

"Oh, I have not forgotten. That is similar to what I told him."

"Then what is his excuse for not seeing me?"

Father leaned back in his chair. "I am not so convinced of your feelings, Lothíriel. I have withheld him to allow you some peace these past days to learn your mind and your feelings."

She gaped at him. "How could I! When I have been thinking he forgot about me as soon as we—"

He was smiling wryly, which only annoyed Lothíriel more, and she snapped her mouth shut.

"There it is, then," Father said, and sighed. "An old man's mistake. You overestimate my wisdom, daughter. I apologize that I have not allowed the two of you to reconcile yourselves. I only thought...well. I thought wrongly. I will miss you terribly, when you are in Rohan."

"But—"

"I am going to retire," Father stood, and bent to kiss her forehead. "Good night. Stay and eat your supper—whatever your appetite, I do not wish you expiring anytime soon."

Lothíriel huffed as he left, the thud of the door closing behind him enclosing her in absolute silence. She was alone, the laden table in front of her taunting her with fruit. There was fish, too; silvery, fire-roasted fish, and she stuck her tongue out at it.

"And what did the meal do to you, Hleah?"

A sudden voice made her jump, and Lothíriel turned in her seat to see Éomer standing behind her, wearing a forced smile though his eyes were glum. "Your father sent me," he told her. "He would not say if you had agreed to...to marry me. I suppose that means I must hear my second rejection from your own lips."

"But—" Lothíriel began to speak, and then swallowed nervously. Éomer sat in her father's abandoned chair, watching her. She only managed a whispered, "Why?"

"Why, what? I am sure I owe you a dozen explanations at least; you will have to be more specific of what you wish to know."

Her voice grew stronger. "Why did you let Amrothos bully you?"

"I wanted to do the right thing," Éomer said, his eyes not leaving hers. "You had refused me before; I did not wish a repeat of the same. I thought that going along politely with your family would put me in your good graces."

" _I_  do not even go along politely with my family, at least not always," she pointed out, feeling a great deal of weight lift off of her shoulders. "But that reason is sound, I accept it."

"Good," he said sardonically. "What next?"

"I—er...why did you want to marry me in the first place?"

Éomer shrugged at this, though his expression looked uncomfortable. "It was suggested to me, by my counsellors and your father. It seemed to me that it would save myself a great deal of grief over choosing my own bride, and so I consented. I did not believe that you might refuse...token of my arrogance, I suppose."

Now knowing him as she did, Lothíriel did not think him arrogant at all. Even had he expected her to agree to marry him without so much of a courtship, it did not fit the man she had grown to know...and love. Her skirt was rumpling in her hand as she wrung it, feeling awkward.

"That is all I wish to ask at present," she said at last. "I no longer feel so slighted."

Éomer's face relaxed somewhat, and she received a small smile. "I am glad to hear it! Now—I do not wish to be demanding, but before I leave for Rohan, I would like to hear, plainly, why you are refusing me this second time. That is all, and then I will leave you be."

"I am not refusing you a second time!" Lothíriel burst out. "You are underestimating my pride. You ought to know by now that I would never submit to an arranged match, yet you have gone about doing that exact thing! Why did you seek to convince my father of your affection, and yet give me none of the same assurances?" She gave a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "Gods, how can I refuse something  _you have literally never asked me_?"

He blinked at her, his mouth a small O of surprise. Then he leaned forward and said in a hoarse voice, "Marry me."

She sniffed, flushing red. "If you insist."

A moment of astonished silence (had she really just agreed to wed?), and then a shout of laughter. "You are a minx," Éomer said with an unabashed grin, and stood to pull her to her feet. "My Hleah...the woman who makes me laugh most."

"I am afraid you will have to truly commit yourself to teaching me Rohirric now," Lothíriel said severely. "No more of that half-hearted nonsense."

"If you insist," he teased, and brought her knuckles to his lips.

"And while we are on the topic—no more eating  _buti_  with strange women on deserted islands."

"Only with you, of course." Éomer's eyes were alight with happiness, not unlike her own feelings, and she could not help smiling despite herself. "Do you know," he said thoughtfully. "I think I fell in love with you the moment you stuck your tongue out at Elphir on the boat. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," Lothíriel said, unblushing.

"I liked your spirit then, and I like it now. May I kiss you?"

"Do not waste time asking," she said coolly. "My answer will always be the same: get on with it, then! Otherwise I will be forcing  _buti_ through your teeth."

He chuckled, holding her close, and her skin began to tingle and her heart race. "Benevolent woman," Éomer mused.

"Oh, that is rubbish and you know it! Are you going to kiss me or will you take the  _buti_?"

Almost to her disappointment, he kissed her, and no sound but the rushing of sea waves against the cliffs below was heard for quite some time. But eventually curiosity sunk into Lothíriel's mind, and she pulled away, looking him in the eye.

"I have been wondering," she said. "What is it that you said in Rohirric, which you told me I was not allowed to know?"

"Oh!" Éomer laughed, holding her close. "I was only being silly; I said that I had never laughed to much with such a beautiful woman in all my life."

"Is that so?"

"It is!"

Lothíriel stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment more, and then chuckled too. "I am going to believe you," she told him. "But perhaps only because I wish to. I think...I think Father is nearby. Do you think we ought to tell him that we've made up?"

"Not yet," Éomer said, and lowered his head to kiss her again. "I am sure Imrahil can wait a bit longer…"


End file.
